Lord of the Mountain Roads
by DarionDamage
Summary: The Witchking is waging war on Ulthuan and the Cult of Pleasure is growing, and times of discord have descended on Naggaroth. Setharai, a Dark Rider, is sent on a suicide mission into the Blackspine Mountains, a pawn in the game of nobles striving to achieve influence, and loses everything... just to find help - and maybe more - where she had least expected it.
1. 1 - Dark Rider

**Lord of the Mountain Roads**

**Chapter I: Dark Rider**

_Sunset spread out crosswise over the peaks of the valley of dreams._  
_You tied grass into a knot and wove a lock of my hair into it._  
_You sent, in strange dreams, that crazy vision of a land_  
_Where days are bright with starlight_

_I will call you 'Lord of Mountain Roads.'_  
_Who said that snow is cold?_  
_I will go through the pass and the rock ledge crossroads_  
_The junction of rivers of stone_

_I am leaving in the tracks of those unaware what the word 'fear' means._  
_Oh, isn't everyone with you who got lost, who died in the mountains_  
_Who found peace there, where the winds dance under your hand_  
_On the verge of a clear morning?_

_I will call you 'Lord of Mountain Roads.'_  
_Clouds swirl in clusters before the storm._  
_Our blood is escaping into the sand_  
_Forget it and it will sprout a willow wand_

_I wanted to stay with you_  
_I have already managed to dare_  
_Unclouded pain smells like snow -_  
_Is it the distance, the height or death?_

_May frost cover my trail of footprints_  
_So that no one will have been able to find them._  
_Who reads your name under the ice now_  
_Lord of Mountain Roads?_

_(Translation of the song by Melnitsa, „Lord of Mountain Roads")_

_...  
_

These were dark times, times that no Druchii with a heart true to Khaine and to the ancient pride of the noble heritage of Nagarythe could look upon without feeling utter despair in their soul. Times darker and more treacherous than before.

Foul creatures, damned humans favored by the debased god of lust and hunger, marched through the cities and along the roads of Naggaroth. Dark Elves sacrificed their honor to crawl under the whip of daemons. The Cult of Pleasure, responsible for the war that had driven the Druchii into exile from their righteous home, emerged from under the surface, and the Seeress-Queen Morathi once again controlled her people as if they were mere puppets in her selfish schemes. Decadence and perversion ruled the once proud and deadly people, and the Temple of Khaine struggled to maintain order, but even the murderous and magnificent Brides of Khaine fell prey to the dark temptation, surrendering to the evil caress of Slaanesh one by one.

And though the ones still righteous and nonyielding called out to their leader, the mighty Wicthking, he was not there to support them or lead them into the battle against the enemy within with his firm hand and wise mind; for he was gone to wage war on Ulthuan, and his all-seeing eye was averted from his own people.

These were dark times, and dark was the night through which Setharai rode. The steed, fiery and black as the night sky, was not able to gain full speed on the rocky terrain, and her rider was reluctant to injure the loyal mount. Up and down the road coiled and unfolded, in serpentine curves, and Setharai's view was at all times obscured by the mountains on both sides of the narrow pass. She had been going for five full days now, stopping only to let Umdar, her horse, graze upon the scarce vegetation hidden under snow, and to sleep in uneasy, nightmare-filled fits. She was glad that the highest part of the pass was behind them, where she had only been able to lead Umdar by the reigns, the air so thin and the rocky ground so steep that even she had trouble to keep her pace on foot.

She was a Dark Rider, and she had a task; though she began to wonder by now if it was not a suicide mission, a mere gesture of the one who hired her to show his allies that he tried his best.

Umdar snorted, probably smelling some animal close by, something small and irrelevant, since Setharai's sharp elven senses didn't register anything. Umdar was hungry, of course, since for the last two days they had crossed such barren terrain that she had found nothing under the frozen snow. The air was still thin, but Setharai was persistent and well-trained, and so was Umdar; they traveled on. They were lucky that the walls of rock on both sides of the pass at least guarded them from the icy wind that had tortured them on their way up the slope, biting through Setharai's light leather armor and thick woolen cloak and freezing the sweat on Umdar's flanks before it could evaporate.

Setharai had shared her own rations of dried meat with her horse, but Umdar was not sated. It was probably the warm scent of some rodent, or maybe a fox, that made her nervous now. The black steeds of the Dark Riders were nothing like their counterparts that the weakling usurpers of Ulthuan held – they were raised and trained to bite and kick out at the enemies, and to devour the flesh of their corpses. Like her sisters and brothers, Umdar was a ferocious beast.

Sethatrai patted the steeds neck. "Shhh, my deadly, we will be there soon. When we find Lord Arhigram, you will get some rest and some meat. Be patient, my beautiful, be patient."

The steed suddenly pinned her ears back and reared, almost throwing Setharai from her back. Setharai gripped the saddle with her thighs, shouting out in surprise. Her left hand still held the reigns, but her right dropped to the handle of her sword, drawing it quickly.

And just in time. Umdar had sensed them long before her elven companion did – humans, monstrous, ugly shapes with thick bones and square shoulders, thundering clumsily along the mountain road with their axes and crude swords raised over their heads. The Chaos Moon, appearing from behind torn clouds, shone its greenish light on them, and Setharai saw them more clearly than she would wish to. Dressed in garishly colored furs and leather, their skin painted with patterns more intricate than she would expect from such barbarians, they were running towards her, in the clear intention to kill.

How could they have approached without her noticing? How did they know at all of her presence? Sorcery must be at work here, she thought feverishly.

She pressed her heels into the steed's flanks, and the horse jumped forwards, speeding ahead and straight into the running horde. "Go, my deadly, go!" Setharai let her voice end in an eerie scream that echoed in the mountains. "Bless me, Anath Raema!"

They crashed into the wave of the barbarians like a skiff's bow, cutting a line through the middle, Setharai's sword lashing out to the left and the right with quickness increased by her fear, Umdar's sharpened teeth biting chunks of flesh out of the humans' shoulders and faces. The narrow road was a disadvantage for the humans as well – slow and bearish, they had difficulties to strike out properly, and hindered each other; Umdar's impact threw them towards the rocky walls and against each other, smashing limbs and breaking skulls.

A man grabbed the reigns, his gross features adorned with heavy golden rings in nose and lips distorted in a lustful grin, and she struck down, her blade cutting through his bald head; but he had slowed them down, and now she had to parry and dodge the blows instead of plowing through the horde at full speed.

An axe missed the Druchii's thigh just by a width of a finger and buried its blade in the leather of the saddle. Setharai felt Umdar twitch, and the steed cried out, indicating that she was hurt. With a cry of anger, the rider lashed out with her sword in half a circle, cutting the top half of the enemy's skull off, and he fell backwards, drawing the axe out in his movement.

And then they were through, the barbarians reacting too late to follow them, and Umdar, bleeding from her side but undefeated, galloped away from the pass, the terrain finally sloping down again.

Now she felt she had a ghost of a chance to finally reach Lord Arhigram and deliver her message. Breathlessly, she prayed to Anath Raema to have granted her this success, to have chosen her as the hunter, not the prey, to have allowed her to slay so many of the damn brutes and still survive.

And then she saw lights in the darkness; fires, hundreds of them. Frantically, she grasped Umdar's reigns, pulling, tearing, trying to make the steed stop running, stand; and she wished to have been slain at that narrow pass.

An army was stationed in the valley before her.

Bellows from crude throats echoed from the ancient stone of the Blackspines, distasteful songs were sung at the blazing fireplaces. Humans and bestial creatures, turned into undefined monsters by the touch of chaos. And among them, fallen yet proud, the worst of all living beings, were ten or twelve, or maybe fifteen – she didn't dare to call them Druchii, it hurt her mind to even think about them as her kind – beautiful, seductive, treacherous – she wanted to make it stop, make them disappear – elven women, Druchii, Sorceresses and fallen Witches, talking to these beasts, laughing with them... Oh Anath Raema, grant me a fast death, she prayed, that my eyes must see such debasement... Some of them were even laying with the beasts.

Setharai retched, leaning over the side of her horse to spit on the snowy ground. When she regained her breath, she looked more closely, forcing herself to study the situation with a cold heart and a clear mind.

This was probably one of the hosts that the loyal followers of the decadent Queen have summoned. Chaos barbarians following the call of the rotten deity that they called the Dark Prince, and even more gruesome mutated beings. She discovered a graceful daemon among them, neither female nor male in appearance, with crab-like claws, stalking among the people sitting at the fires and randomly slicing through them with the blades growing from its arms. The chaos worshipers didn't resist the daemon's touch, as if they didn't care about death – or even welcomed it.

This was bad. Very bad. Her employer had explained to her that it would be here that Lord Arhigram's men would set up camp on their hunt for run-away slaves. A dangerous territory, said to be in the hand of the Autarii, the Shades, who didn't always ally with the city-dwellers – especially not with those from Clar Karond. But it seemed that not the Shades had laid an end to Arhigram's hunt. Instead, they were probably all dead by the hands of chaos-worshiping scum now, and with these being Slaaneshi forces, they probably had experienced a very long-lasting, very torturous way to die. What a terrible and shameful end!

She had to ride back. She urged Umdar to turn and then stopped, listening to the steeds ragged breath. Quickly, she slid from the saddle and lead the horse into the shadow of a ledge. She struggled with the saddle straps, unbuckling them with trembling fingers, and suppressed a scream. Under the saddle, a deep wound was gaping in the horse's side, red trickling rivulets running down and dripping onto the rocks. And from the way Umdar gasped and shivered, Setharai knew that the steed's lung was damaged. There was nothing she could do for Umdar; she was not a healer. She could only wait – but waiting here, with the army on one side and the barbarians on the road pass on the other, most of which were probably still alive, would be death for them both.

At last, she had decided to lead Umdar by the reigns. She couldn't leave the horse there, even though other Druchii would have called her softhearted – but who was here to witness it at all? Umdar had been with her for many years, they had fought hundreds of battles together, delivered thousands of messages. She had never been as close to any Druchii as she was to her loyal mount.

Tears flowed down her face, freezing half-way to her chin, and she made step after step in the darkness, hoping to make it to another pass or some not yet known entrance to the tunnels beneath before dawn. Hoping, helplessly, that they had a chance. She didn't dare to pray to Anath Raema for help anymore. The Goddess of the Hunt was a deity of predators; she wouldn't listen to someone who now was merely a fleeing prey animal.

...

_Author's notes: For those who read/have read my other story (Hadrilkar - the Collar of Servitude), expect to see a side character from it emerging in this story soon! And, for a change, there will be no Slaaneshi-typical debaucheries in this project, since we approach the other side now - that of Druchii who are not at all impressed by the surfacing Cult of Pleasure (I combine the "Storm of Chaos" and the current canon storyline version - meaning __Malekith invades Ulthuan, __the Cult of Pleasure grows stronger, Morathi invades Lustria, and at the end, Malekith comes back in defeat and, using a possibility to find a scapegoat, starts a great purge to free Naggaroth from the Cult, forbiding even the memory of it having surfaced again - and the order is restored as if nothing had happened). This story is actually a romantic one (or as far as romance can go according to the Druchii view on life). Yes, I want to try my hand at writing romance, and since it is close to impossible with Makareth, the main character of Hadrilkar, I chose another one for that._


	2. 2 - Bloodshade

**Lord of the Mountain Roads**

**Chapter II: Bloodshade**

...**  
**

The Shades, they said, were even more cruel and cold than other Dark Elves. They hunted Druchii like wolves hunted does in their inhospitable mountain lands, blinded the women and kept them as slaves, and slaughtered the men to eat their flesh. They practiced rituals old and forgotten by the city-dwellers. They left their newborn children outside their tents on a midwinter night to see if they could survive alone in the frost. The Shades were monsters, even for Druchii standards.

The Autarii, they said, were the wild clans of Nagarythe who refused to stay in the newly founded cities after the Druchii came into the lands of their exile. They went away, men and women and children, to live in the mountains, where there is only ice, and black pines, and death.

The Autarii, they said, were the true nobles of Clar Karond, betrayed by their subordinates who stole their lands and their birthright. They had been fighting against Chaos in the mountains, forgot their true nature and never came back to chase away the usurpers; but till now the ruling families of the City of the Ships shivered in their nightmares, fearing their return.

The Shades, they said, were fast and silent, and skilled in reading tracks. They were scouts, spies and skirmishers, and they were a deadly attack force in forests, swamps and rocky landscapes where other regiments were in disadvantage. They were hired by armies of Dreadlords, and they fought for the Witchking in Ulthuan.

The Shades, they said, can lead your through the wild terrains safely or kill you from the shadows. They watched over the gates to the subterranean seas, and they kept the memory of ancient graves and mausoleums of the long gone ancestors, guarding sacred places that all other Druchii have long since forgotten.

He did guard a grave indeed. No one was allowed to set foot in his forever frozen realm.

The leader of the barbarians fell backwards, gurgling. The others saw the bolt that had pierced his throat, and looked around, alarmed, but not in panic. Some of them began searching for the shooter, running to the rocks and looking behind trees, slow, awkward, shouting and speaking all the time, they language cutting his ears like a badly ground knife. He aimed, calmly, and another bolt whistled through the air. Another human collapsed on the frozen ground.

Now they finally had the idea to look into the direction where the bolt came from. They saw nothing. His hood was dark green, his robe dark brown, and his face was hidden by a black shawl; he was practically invisible in the crown of the pine. It was dark, and his elven eyes saw everything, while their human blindness left them helpless. Their torches were useless – they made their eyes even more unused to the night. He had wound his legs around its trunk, keeping his torso up with his stomach muscles, since the branches to unstable to sit on. The heavy and clumsy humans probably couldn't even imagine that someone could hide in a tree like that. But nevertheless, he stilled his breath, not moving a finger width, waiting for their gazes to move on.

And they did. They walked on. It was snowing again, and he heard them curse. They couldn't find his tracks under the new layer of snow – and they wouldn't be able to see the grave.

But even though it would stay hidden from them, they tried to desecrate it with their stinking presence.

Slowly, he loaded more bolts into the repeater crossbow. And aimed again. Three quick shots, three men slain.

Finally they understood that they needed cover, running towards the cave entrance that lead to a well hidden inside the mountain. More bolts traveled from the quiver into the loading mechanism. He felt content that they had ran into the trap, but he didn't smile.

He hadn't smiled for more than two year now.

He heard them scream as they stumbled over the ropes and fell onto the sharpened rocks placed strategically all over the floor of the cave, hardly visible before you fell face first onto them. The last five ones who had not broken their skulls on the stone ran out again, and he let bolts rain down on them till they ran no more.

He pulled his cloak closer, tucking it into his belts so it would not disturb his descent, and swiftly climbed down. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he drew his sword and his dagger and strode over to the barbarians. Not all of them were dead yet, and one of them tried to grab his ankle as he stepped over him. His blade struck downwards, with a precise, short movement, and the hand gripping his leg went weak, the tendons severed. He walked from one to the other, cutting through their throats or crushing their spines with one blow of the sword.

At dawn, he was at last sure that none of the human scum had survived. The winter sun was not visible yet, but from behind the Blackspines, it cast yellow shine onto the snow-covered mountain tops. The clouds that had brought snow in the night were now empty of their burden, light gray stripes upon the sky quickly growing pale.

He drank at the well and wiped his blades clean with a garish cloak of one of the dead enemies. Another day began, a day of restless wandering and of thoughts echoing in his mind with distant pain.

Like every morning, he went to greet his family.

His path lead him up into the mountains. Soon, the trees became scarce and crippled, old bony fingers trying to grasp the painfully light-blue sky. The terrain was steeper, craggier, but his pace never changed. He knew this place by heart. Leaping from rock to rock, he continued his way, higher and higher.

Powdery snow had covered the surface of the ice. The scarred and ragged rocks were smoothed out here, from the mountain top to the small plateau on which he now stood, under which the black rock began again. A glacier, frozen blood of the Blackspines, placed lower on the flank of the mountain than the rest of its white crown.

He crouched down and wiped away the snow, his hand not feeling the cold.

The ice of the glacier was clear as crystal. Like many things created through magical intervention it had characteristics more defined, more extreme than its natural counterpart.

Beneath the glassy surface, she looked at him with dark eyes wide with terror, her black hair pressed against one side of her face, her mouth open in an attempt to breathe.

"Good morning, blood of my heart," he whispered.

They had fought against beastmen, foul creatures of Chaos. He had been the Urhan's firstborn son. When the old man fell, slain in that unholy war, he became the new Urhan, the new ruler of the clan. But even with his more cunning and less proud leadership, they could not succeed against an ever growing horde.

It was then that the sorcerer appeared on a black winged creature, summoned from doom and destruction, and offered help. The only thing he asked in return was that the Urhan would serve him. For seventy years.

He had seen no other chance. He agreed. The sorcerer hid in a cave and worked on a ritual for days, and he took all the blinded and mute slaves of the Autarii as sacrifices for gods he would not tell the name of. On the third night he emerged again, and from the cave streamed forth a current of pale and purple-skinned abominations and slithering monsters. The newborn demonic army breached the wall of beastman bodies, engulfed their camps, slashed and ate through their defenses.

The beastmen had fled, and he kept his promise. He gave the amulet which marked his leadership to his younger brother. He kissed his wife on her lips and her brow. He spoke one more time to his sons and his daughter. And he went with the sorcerer and followed him for seventy years.

He had not thought about the consequences of the wretched help that the sorcerer provided.

The army summoned from the darkest pits of other worlds was not gone after it had devoured the beastmen. It had come to stay.

His people had lived without him, and he would never learn if they missed him or cursed him. For seventy years, he had only thought about returning to his clan. When he returned, he found them all frozen in the glacier.

The demonic army had grown; now humans were joining it, barbarians with hearts impure and lustful. He found the encampment just the day after his other discovery, and he caught human after human, skinning them alive, till he found one who knew what happened to his kin.

The human had told him everything before the Shade granted him the mercy of death.

The Autarii didn't tolerate Chaos. They tried to drive the unnatural creatures away. But they had no success. The barbarians, led and taught by demonic champions and the slender nightmares with purple and pale skin, defeated the clan and forced them to move further up into the mountains.

Still, the terrain was well-known to the Shades, and they brought terrible losses upon the enemy. For decades, they fought. For decades, the enemy army, despite being harvested by the Autarii, grew in number and strength, like a storm gathering. For decades, the Autarii guarded the passes between the highest peaks and chased the Chaos patrols away from their new, smaller, territory.

At last, when the Chaos forces saw that they couldn't annihilate the Autarii with sheer strength, they had used magic.

Their sorcerers summoned an avalanche. It thundered down the mountain and engulfed the whole clan, and another spell turned the snow into a glacier, speeding up the natural process and freezing the Shades into their eternal grave.

He came back just a year after the catastrophe had happened.

Now he fought the whole army alone, and guarded his dead. None of the enemies he had met had survived so far, and no one knew that he lived here.

He climbed up the glacier, his feet and hands sliding on the ice, but in some places he had driven sharpened logs or knives into the ice to serve as ladders. He looked into the faces of his sons and his daughter. They had become adults in the time that he had not seen them, but he still recognized them. His eldest son wore the amulet. He had was the Urhan now, probably after his uncle's death. He felt a tiny spark of pride.

He greeted them all, his family and his clan, and then slid down again, leaning against the glacier, divided by the ice from the beautiful elf woman that had born his children. He imagined her calling his name.

After two years alone, he sometimes had trouble remembering it.

He searched in the snow on the plateau between the rocks on the edge of the plateau where the glacier ended and finally found the tent of human hide, the small iron cauldron, the logs of wood, the clay tinder container, flint and steel.

When the fire burned, he sat down on the folded tent, took a pipe out of his backpack and filled it with dried herbs from a leather pouch. He lighted it with a burning piece of bark and inhaled deeply.

Ruathac, he thought. My name is Ruathac.

...


	3. 3 - Stranger

**Lord of the Mountain Roads**

**Chapter III: Stranger**

...

It had begun snowing again. Setharai stumbled on, putting one foot in front of the other stubbornly, sinking deep into the snow. Her thoughts were dark, and her heart felt like a lump of ice-cold iron, but she forced herself to continue walking.

Umdar was dead. She had left the steed only after the animal had stopped breathing; sat with her under the shelter of a rock ledge, watching her black sides rising and falling rapidly, listening to the horrible wheezing sound that the mare made when the wounded lungs began to give up their work. Now the horse was just another shape under the shadow of the mountains, snow blown over her body by the wind making her seem another rock among many.

Setharai couldn't bring herself to cut meat from the steed's flanks. She knew it would have been sensible to do so, as her supplies of food were close to non-existent now. But her hand had shaken when she clutched the dagger in her hand, and she simply wasn't able to do it.

There was a storm gathering. Setharai's senses, adjusted to perceive more than what was visible to the eye, told her that the snow and the wind were but a mirror of what was happening in the unseen world of the magical winds.

She had never mentioned to anybody that she was able to feel the winds. Her talent for sorcery had never been discovered, a well hidden secret, often a reason for her success where other messengers had failed. She never wanted to become a sorceress, the idea of being locked in the Convent frightened her, threatened her love for freedom. But even with her magical senses untrained and unrefined, she was clairvoyant enough to see that the energies gathering here were doing so by more than mere coincidence. It was a part of a greater pattern, one that would draw all of Naggaroth, and maybe the entire world, towards a new direction.

The darkness was becoming less intense, and she knew that she had to hurry. The humans of the Chaos army that were sitting at their campfires or sleeping in their tents now would see better during the day, and losing her advantage might mean losing her life. She moved closer to the mountain's rocky wall, searching for a hidden spot where she could spend the day. Lucky for her, the ground was less barren now, with frozen vegetation under the snow, and black pines rising into the dark skies all around her. Still, she was not sure the pines would provide enough shelter against the eyes of the barbarians.

It was almost dawn when she finally found an entrance to a cave. She gritted her teeth, running towards it, and almost fell over a humanoid shape. Instantly wary, she looked around herself. The slope of the mountain was covered by bodies under a thin blanket of snow. Bolts protruded from their flesh, bolts looking suspiciously like those shot from a Druchii crossbow. For a moment, hope lighted her heart. Did she find the campsite of the Dark Elven hunters that she was sent to bring a message to at last?

A quick search scattered her hopes again. There were only dead barbarians here. But there were no Druchii corpses, meaning that whoever had killed the humans had survived and might be close by.

She made a decision and staggered towards the cave. She would stay here for the day. A chance to meet a Dark Elf was worth it. She didn't think that she would make it back to Clar Karond alone. And if the unknown Druchii was an enemy of the Chaos barbarians, she might find an ally in him.

It was dark inside, and not a bit warmer than outside. More corpses were lying on the floor. The men inside the cave seemed to have broken their skulls and spines on the rocky floor, thrown down by something; some of them had their throats slit. Carefully, she tip-toed her way into the darkness, looking for traps. At the wall on the opposite side from the entrance, she found a frozen well, a basin carved into stone, into which a rivulet of water must had flown in warmer days from a hole in the cavern's wall, the water now solid ice. She slumped down next to the basin and pulled her cloak around her. Maybe she would live another day.

...

Ruathac woke up with a start. Sun shone into his eyes, white and merciless, and the fire had turned into a few smoking coals. The pipe in his hand was long since cold. He considered pitching up the tent and going back to sleep. There was not much to do for today – he had repaired the breach in the tent's side with a new human hide a week ago, sharpened his sword and dagger yesterday, and he had enough herbs for his pipe and enough meat to keep him sated and calm for the next few days. It was more than enough time till dark, when he would leave to hunt the barbarians again.

Then it struck him. He had forgotten to retrieve the crossbow bolts. And he didn't cut any meat from the prey of yesterday's night. In fact, he had not much to eat here at all. He was becoming careless, the routine of his lonely days lulling him into a dangerous negligence.

He stood up, treading from one leg to another, trying to shake away the numb feeling in his limbs that came from having slept while sitting cross-legged. He piled snow over the coals till no more smoke rose from them, hid his possessions under at the edge of the plateau, pulled his shawl over mouth and nose and began his descend from the mountain.

He was lucky – the corpses were untouched, neither by animals, nor by their human comrades. Ruathac hid between rocks for some time, making sure there was no one here, and then leapt from stone to stone till he reached the first of the dead. The bolt had been frozen in the blood that had poured out of the wound in the man's throat, and the Druchii had to shake it back and forth and apply force to pull it out; it came free with a cracking sound, but didn't break.

Walking from one dead barbarian to another, he collected all his bolts, even those that were not usable anymore, iron point sshattered against armor or bent on a stone when the enemies fell, wood splintered by a bone – he didn't want the bolts to betray him to the humans, to make it clear that it was a Druchii who had killed their kind here. He was alone, and he preferred his silent war to stay silent; he felt no need to become the hunted one.

After a while, he was done with the corpses outside the cave and stepped inside. Most of the barbarians here were not killed by bolts, and he was sure he would quickly retrieve the last ones.

And that was when he heard faint breathing.

He aimed his crossbow at the sound, freezing in mid-step.

The breathing continued, its rhythm unchanged. Whoever was here was not afraid – or hadn't noticed him yet. Ruathac stepped closer, peering into the darkness.

There was the frozen fountain, the small well where Ruathac's clan used to get clean water during the summer when the snow in these lower regions of the mountains was scarce and dirtied by the animals populating the rocky terrain. A dark shape was curled up at the wall next to it.

It took Ruathac only seconds to realize that he was looking at a Druchii, not at one of the square-shouldered, heavy humans. Most of the slender, almost fragile looking figure was concealed by a black cloak, but he saw a leather vambrace and a boot with a spur; the style of the clothing showed that this was a city-dweller and not an Autarii. A hood obscured most of the face of the elf; what Ruathac saw of the skin was pale, paler than Dark Elven skin would usually be.

He suddenly understood that the paleness was caused by the cold, just like the slow, hardly audible sound of the elf's breath. This foolish Druchii had fallen asleep without being used to the cold air of the Blackspines, without a fire to keep him warm, and dressed much too lightly. Whoever this was, he was freezing to death. He wouldn't wake up if Ruathac left him here.

Ruathac's first instinct was to simply go and let the unknown elf die. But loneliness and curiosity won against habit, and instead he walked over to the lying shape and pulled away the cloak to look at the other elf more closely.

He recognized the type of leather armor. It was the light black armor consisting of small plates of cooked leather, shaped to the wearer's body, armor that he had seen on Dark Riders when they were riding through Naggaroth as messengers and not going to war. The spurs, which were much too small and delicate to be used on the thick hide of a nauglir, were another clue, and a messenger bag slung over the shoulder of the elf – the stranger was pressing the bag to his chest with both arms, as if it was his most precious possession – a third. Ruathac wondered where the elf's horse was and why he had gone to sleep here, among the corpses. From what he knew, Dark Riders didn't sleep much on their missions anyway.

He crouched down and, still aiming the crossbow at the stranger with his right hand, tugged on the belt of the bag with his left. The elf didn't resist when Ruathac pulled the bag away to take a look into it, already too deep in the fatal slumber of someone freezing to death.

There was only a cylindrical wooden case in the bag, like the ones often used to transport rolled up parchments; and a few scraps of dried meat wrapped in a piece of linen.

The Shade looked back at the sleeping elf. Now that the arms that were holding the bag were out of the way, he saw by the shape of the armor that the Dark Rider was a female.

If he just left now, he thought, she would become another frozen shape; frozen like his wife in the glacier.

If he left, he might never hear a word of Druhir from a mouth other than his own. No one would ever call him by his name again.

He stood up, undecided what to do, staring at the black-clad elf on the floor for another minute. Why did she come here now? Why was he here just in time to be able to save her? Why hadn't he been here years ago, when he could have saved his clan? The sinister thoughts made his heart bitter, and he was once again tempted by the idea to leave her here and go his own way.

Then he realized that every moment he waited now could be a moment too late for the stranger to survive. He sighed, picked her up and carried her out of the cave.


	4. 4 - Snow and Rock

_Answers to the comments: _

_Thank you for the reviews! And thank you both for the compliments on grammar and/or spelling; as English is not my native language, it is good to hear that the story is readable!_

_ITN 7th: Yes, I plan to complete the story. I have completed my other story here(Hadrilkar – The Collar of Servitude), so the chances are high that I also won't give up on this one._

_yay: Characters from other races will probably only appear in this story as side characters or enemies, since I tend to focus on Dark Elves._

...

...

**Lord of the Mountain Roads**

**Chapter IV: Snow and Rock**

...

Setharai woke up. The mercifully dim light didn't hurt her eyes, and she moved carefully, turning from her back to her side, curling up in the warmth of furs that she was covered with. Wondering if she had reached the encampment after all without remembering it, she looked at the sewn together hides of the tent she was lying in.

Then she realized that among the hides were those of Druchii. It shocked her; she clearly saw the pale delicate color of the material, Druhir signs tattooed on it, and suppressed a scream. This was not one of the tents of the Dark Elven lord she had tried to deliver the message to.

Autarii. The thought flashed through her mind. Autarii! The Shades! The savage elves of these mountain tribes often hunted city-dwelling Druchii who dared to intrude in their territory. Was she captured by them?

Disoriented again, she moved her arms and legs, finding them not restrained by any means. If the Autarii had caught her, why would they leave her free? She sat up and looked down onto her body, throwing off the furs. Cold air engulfed her, and she shivered. She was still wearing her thin robe and her breeches, but her leather jerkin, her armor and her weapons were gone. Setharai scanned the tent for her belongings, but they were not in sight.

As silently as possible, she stood up and paced her way to the entrance of the tent. Drawing back the curtain of Druchii and human skin, she peered outside. The white light of winter, reflected from radiant snow, almost blinded her.

She was on a natural balcony formed in a mountain side by a whim of nature. A steep, almost perfectly smooth slope rose above it into the height, and the view from the ledge was magnificent in daylight – dark woods descending into a valley, the black, gray and white peaks of the Blackspines surrounding the place, and a sky bleak as milk, the sun hidden behind clouds, shining its pale light onto the scenery. Just a few steps from the tent, a fire burned, dark fumes of poorly dried wood rising from it.

Next to the fire, an elf sat, dressed in dark leather, a short chain-mail coat and a thick woolen cloak, his face obscured by a shawl that covered his mouth and nose, his shaggy black hair, shaved away at the sides of his head, drawn into a ponytail. The elf seemed to be deep in thought or sleeping – he didn't react to her movement.

Maybe if she could surprise him, she had a chance, even though he was armed – she saw the repeater crossbow on his lap, and a sword at his belt. She wouldn't let herself be treated as mere prey. If the Autarii brought her here to slaughter her and eat her as meat, or use her skin for tents and clothing – she wouldn't give up that easily.

A small voice in the back of her head whispered that it was not all that logical for them to have left her unbound if her suspicion was right.

She ignored it, running two steps towards the stranger and launching herself at him, her hands grabbing the crossbow.

…

Ruathac had heard the Rider stir in her sleep, move inside the tent, and when her pale face, the expression of mistrust and anger distorting her features, appeared between the hides, he had seen it without turning his head. He had already known what she would do when she woke up, and had positioned himself so that he could see the entrance to the tent from the corner of his eye. She would surely try to attack him, like probably every Druchii would. Shades were not famous for their hospitality, at least not till they shared salt and meat with a stranger, which bound both sides with a traditional oath. As the Dark Rider wouldn't remember doing so, fighting seemed the logical way to go. That was the main reason why he had taken her weapons outside and not left them in the tent.

When she toppled him over, trying to grasp the crossbow, he let himself fall, providing no resistance. His hand found the dagger at his side, drawing it quickly but not pointing it at her. He needed it just in case his plan wouldn't work.

She jumped back to the entrance of the tent, the crossbow pointed in his direction. He stayed on the ground, breathing calmly, and turned his head to face her.

Ruathac saw her face light up in triumph. It was lovely, heart-shaped, with dark-blue eyes and a small red mouth, and surrounded by tangled silky strand of her hair. He saw her ribcage rising when she breathed in, accentuating the small breasts that marked her otherwise almost androgynous, slender form as female; the thin black robe hid little of her form. He felt almost attracted to her for a moment, and hoped that he wouldn't have to kill her. "I won't do you harm." His voice was slightly muffled by the shawl, but she seemed to understand what he had said.

The woman arched her brows, her dark blue eyes flashing angrily. "Where are my weapons?" She spoke the softer dialect of the port cities, Clar Karond and Karond Kar, the harsh sounds of the Druhir language drawn out and blurred into something that almost sounded like the Eltharin of the hated Asur.

"Later. Calm down." He sat up, moving his hand to his face, pulling the shawl down.

Of course, she was startled by the movement, and shot.

Or at least, she tried to shoot. There were no bolts in the mechanism of the repeater crossbow – Ruathac had taken them all out, since he expected that the other Druchii would go for the crossbow.

The woman cried out in anger and jumped at him again, trying to hit him on the head with the crossbow to stun him. She aimed well, too; he was barely able to duck.

She tried again, throwing him down this time, her weight light but the impact still great through the momentum. He raised his arm in defense, and the wood of the weapon crashed against his vambrace, painful but not injuring. With a quick move, he turned over, burying the other Druchii under him, his arm with the dagger coming up.

She went still when she felt the blade at her throat, looking at him with wide indigo eyes.

"Stop fighting me." He was losing his patience. "I am not your enemy."

She looked at him, seemingly confused, but he felt the slightest tug on his weapon belt, and knew instantly that she was trying to draw his sword out of the scabbard. His free hand locked on her wrist, hindering her from doing that.

She gritted her teeth, and her gaze turned into pure hate. "Damned Autarii! Go on, try and kill me!"

A Druchii would prefer death to failure, they said. But how many times was death a failure in itself? He had decided to live on to avenge his tribe after his failure to defend them. If there was something he had learned from this bitter experience, it was that every Druchii life was precious, worth saving. His family, the people of his clan, was gone irreversibly; and he had seen the human barbarians taking over the territory that once belonged to them. Clumsy, worthless, short-lived beings, bringing with them the Chaos spawn, the ugly, foul creatures that they worshipped. Every Druchii still alive would be another inch of Naggaroth not yet lost to Chaos.

"No." He smiled, bitterly. "If you want death, you can jump." He moved his chin towards the border of the natural balcony. "But you could live."

"Live to be cut in pieces while still alive, to be walking food supply? Then let me jump, if you've got any honor left in you! Let go of me, filthy Shade!"

Ruathac moved aside, releasing her. "Well then." He moved his dagger to his left hand and drew his sword with the right, standing up in a fluent movement. "Go ahead."

She was on her feet the next instant, but hesitated. Her eyes darted from one side of the ledge to the other, and then she turned her head quickly, obviously searching for her weapons.

The Shade waited patiently, his hands with sword and dagger not even raised.

Finally, she turned to him, her dark blue eyes curious, her breathing calming. "Where did you hide my sword?"

He grinned. "Not so eager to jump, eh?"

She bit her lip and then suddenly shook her head, realizing that he was not going to attack her – he could have had plenty of time for that just a second ago. "Why did you bring me here?"

"You'd have died otherwise." He shrugged and sheathed his sword, still keeping the dagger in his left hand.

"That is not an answer to my question." She wound her arms around her slender shape, feeling the icy air again now that the heat of the fight left her. "Why did you bring me up to this ledge, put me into your tent, and take away my weapons?" Her eyes narrowed. "And why didn't you restrain me? You were clearly expecting that I would attack you." She glanced at the crossbow, devoid of bolts, lying on the snow.

For a moment, only the fire was crackling, the flame diminishing, the wood burning down. Ruathac threw it a troubled look. "I will help you to get back to your city." He shifted his weight from one leg onto another. It was a really cold day; their rather amusing small fight had had warmed him up, but now he felt his skin numbing again, even under clothes, from the bite of the frost. And the female elf must be freezing in the thin robe she wore. They should definitely get closer to the fire; and it should continue burning. "Mind if I tend to the fire now?"

Shivering, she nodded, and walked back to the tent.

When the fire burned even and bright again, Ruathac went to retrieve her armor and cloak from the hiding place between the rocks, and then followed her. He found her wrapped in the furs, her teeth clattering.

"Here is your armor." He threw it to her. "You should join me at the fire."

She picked up the leather jerkin and then looked up. A smile lighted her face. "My name is Setharai."

Ruathac stared at her for a moment, surprised by the sudden change in her behavior. Then he nodded. "You can call me Ruathac."

She began to put on her armor, first the jerkin, then the breastplate of cooked leather. Lacing up the vambrace on her left arm, she stopped for a moment, frozen in her movement, tilting her head a bit, her expression showing indecisiveness. At last she threw him a quick glance, and said, hardly audibly: "Thank you, Ruathac."

He was amazed at how wonderful it felt to hear a Druchii voice saying his name again.

...

They climbed up the mountain for two days. Setharai was reluctant to take the same pass that she went through on the way from Clar Karond, since they would have to go past the campsite of the Chaos army again to do so. By now the enemy would be alarmed and watch out for them, and it would be too dangerous.

But the way they chose had its own disadvantages. The often steep terrain slowed them down, and more than once they had to go back and search for a better way when the path that Ruathac remembered had been covered by an avalanche or bigger rocks broken from the peaks above by time.

Setharai followed the Autarii wordlessly. At first she had wondered why he wanted to help her at all. She was curious where the rest of his tribe was; she had rarely heard of an Autarii wandering alone. When she had decided to speak to him about it for the first time, when they took a rest from climbing, a mountain goat appeared on the slope under them, and Ruathac followed it to shoot it down. After they had skinned and disemboweled the goat, packed some of the meat to take it with them and eaten themselves full, Setharai was too sated and sleepy to talk. The next time she tried to ask him about his people, a small human warband crossed their way, probably on the way to the valley where the Chaos army was stationed, and they had to fight.

By now, she was too tired from the endless climbing to even bother talking.

Finally, they reached a plateau, and Setharai was glad to finally walk on more or less even ground, even though the air here was thin and so cold that it felt as if it cut her lungs when she breathed in.

One side of the plateau was sheltered from the wind by a mountain side, an almost vertical wall of black and reddish stone. Iridescent veins of metal shimmered in it, and a black hole about two elf heights in diameter was visible in the wall, an entrance to a cave. Looking closer, Setharai saw heaps of rocks on both sides of the entrance.

She walked towards the cave. Inside there was a tunnel leading into the darkness, and rails on the ground following its course. "It is a mine!"

The Shade stepped closer to look inside, and nodded. "Yes. Abandoned, though."

"What kind of mine was it?" She entered the cave and ran a gloved hand over a rough wall. There was no metal shimmering here, and the walls were carved away at some places and left in protruding angles in others.

"Let's go. We won't stay here." Ruathac turned back to leave the cave again.

She followed him outside and looked up at the wall of rock. The metal reflected sunlight where it was visible, sparkling and tempting; but its gleam was darker than that of silver, almost resembling steel. She knew that steel was not found in nature like that; instead, iron had to be melt down and forged to develop its shine. "Is it silver steel? I thought it is made from steel and silver, in a complex process that involves magic… But it does look like silver steel a lot!"

He shook his head. "This is not silver steel." He strode over the plateau, heading for a small breach in the mountain adjacent to the vertical wall.

"Wait!" Setharai frowned. She was much less used to walking the mountain paths than him. If they went on like that, all his attempts to help her would be in vain. She would simply become fatigued and inattentive enough to fall off a rock into the abyss below during one of the more dangerous climbing routes. "Let us rest here. I cannot go on anymore. If the mine is abandoned, we can use the cave as shelter."

His gray eyes were colder than the snow surrounding them when he turned around. "If you insist. But be prepared to fight if necessary."

She sighed and patted the hilt of her sword. "I am always prepared to fight." Dropping her bag, she leaned on the wall of dark stone and shimmering metal. "In fact, I'd much rather fight than walk endlessly over snow and rock."


	5. 5 - Darkness

_Answer to the comment: _

_ITN 7th: Thank you for the review! The fourth chapter is appoximately the same length as the others. Though basically, yes, this story has rather short chapters. The last fan-fiction I wrote had very long chapters and I did update very fast, which had drained most of my inspiration. That is why in this story, the chapters are short, and I update much less often than with the last one. It is actually an experiment (I usually don't write romance... I think it shows, since we are into the 5__th__ chapter now and there still is nothing resembling romance in the story), and meant more for recreation than for anything else._

...

...

**Lord of the Mountain Roads**

**Chapter IV: Darkness**

...

...

_Wait._

_Yes._

_Wait._

_Silence, no more voices, no more souls._

_Wait._

_Days. Months. Years. Decades. Millennia. _

_Wait._

_Hunger._

_Restless, growing weary of waiting._

_Where, where? _

_Voices, again, finally._

_Finally._

_Just a little bit more._

_Wait._

_Ready to strike._

...

Setharai stirred in her sleep. Was it a sound she heard? Was it a nightmare? She rubbed her eyes, disoriented in the darkness, more pitch black that she remembered the last nights to be. Where was she?

She sat up. There was no fire, no warm horse body keeping her safe against the winter of Naggaroth. Where was Umdar? She felt her way along the cold stone ground blindly, and then, finally, she felt – warmth.

"Shhhh, Setharai." A male Druchii voice. Husky, but not particularly dark. Somehow familiar. "Don't move."

She froze.

"There is something outside." Her own words were too loud to her ears.

"Yes." The other elf's voice again. Fingers gripping her hand, warmth even through the material of her glove. "Stay here. I'll go look." The other's hand was gone, and the emptiness was icy on her palm.

She crouched, her hand seeking the leather wrapped hilt of her sword, not warming but comforting, the weapon's blade making almost a soft mewl when she drew it out of the scabbard. In this blackness, every sound was so intense.

Steps not heard, more felt by the flowing of the air. The other elf moved, quietly, more quietly than she could imagine any Druchii move. Memories came flowing back, and she at once knew that the elf was Ruathac, was a Shade, was a temporary ally in the vast valleys and rocky heights of the Blackspines. Maybe trustworthy.

Whistle of a crossbow bolt flying. A scream. Not a scream of a dying creature. A surprised, almost frightened scream. The Shade's voice.

She jumped up, not caring if her steps were heard, ran towards the noise.

She was almost blinded by the light of the sickly green Chaos moon, the small disc hovering over the black shapes of the mountain tops, but she ran on to where a barely visible shadowy figure of an elf was defending himself against three pale-skinned, clumsily moving men.

Not so clumsy at all, she thought while she swung her weapon, they were fast enough to come close enough to Ruathac before his crossbow killed them.

Her blade cut into a human's shoulder, and she pulled it out again, jumping back, parrying a blow of a wooden club that another of them aimed at her.

Not so clumsy, and quite quick to react. But no match for Setharai.

Another swipe of her sword arm, a head rolling, the body still stumbling on before it would fall, a macabre theater of shadow and moonlight.

Her eyes widened as the headless body didn't fall but struck out with the club again. She screamed, bringing her sword down in a downwards strike, severing the arm below the elbow, the club still clutched in the dead hand.

No blood dripped on the snow as the enemy continued attacking her, with a stump of black flesh and his remaining fist. The man she had wounded first turned around too, his shoulder adorned by a black gap of a wound that didn't leak. His face, grayish skin dyed green by the Chaos moon, black holes for eyes, was showing no pain.

She stepped back, cold fear creeping up her spine. Only a moment of hesitation – but it almost cost her her life.

The beheaded undead threw her down, icy weight of flesh frozen solid clashing against her armor, and she felt his remaining hand grip her throat. Setharai was back to her senses instantly. She curled her body into a ball, pushing her knees against the enemy, and threw him off. The body rolled over the side of the plateau and disappeared; she heard it taking stones with it on its way down the steep mountain side.

The one with the shoulder wound swung a length of rusty chain – with sudden clarity she saw that it was still attached to the iron collar that he wore on his neck – trying to hit her with it. She dove down and came up again, gripping the chain between his neck and hand with one hand and plunging her sword into the undead man's stomach with the other. She knew that she wouldn't kill him this way – but it gave her enough leverage, and pressing her feet into the snow, she pushed the undead over the edge of the plateau.

The body slid off her sword into the emptiness, and as she released her grip on the chain, she expected for a moment to see a pleading look on the ugly death mask that the creature had for face, but there was none.

Sudden pain seared through her back, and the impact of the blow brought her down to her knees, sliding on the flat surface of white-covered rock, dangerously close to the edge. She struggled to stand up, to turn around, but another hit threw her onto the ground, and at once she was looking into the abyss beneath. The undead thing was pinning her down, kneeling painfully into her spine only protected from breaking by the cooked leather plates that spread the weight more evenly over her back. She screamed in terror as the undead creature gripped her head with bony fingers, bending it back and turning it, trying to break her neck.

And then the creature was thrown down from her, flying over the edge, its bony fingers scratching the sides of her head in a helpless attempt to hold on.

She watched it fall, heard it bouncing of the rock beneath. Just laying there, staring into the abyss, until a cloud darkened the green moonlight and a firm grip on her waist and hip pulled her away from the edge of the plateau.

…

"I warned you that we would have to fight." Ruathac looked down at the Druchii female. He was relieved that she was not wounded – bruised, probably, and sporting a couple of superficial scratches on her brow and cheeks, but nothing serious.

She stared into his eyes, seemingly confused. Then her indigo eyes focused, and she smiled. "Yes, you did." She sat up. Just a moment later, she was on her feet and walking back to the cave in the vertical rock wall.

Ruathac couldn't believe his eyes. Was she insane? Why would she go back there? He would prefer to leave this place instantly. Then he realized that she might just want to retrieve her bag.

He waited several minutes.

She didn't come back.

Sighing, he followed.

The woman stood there, a witch light flickering over her palm. Ruathac furrowed his brow. So, she was capable of some magic, wasn't she? If she was able to summon a witch light, she would probably also be able to sense that something was not quite right in this abandoned mine. Why, by the Dark Mother, was she still in here then? Even he, having no magical talent whatsoever, could feel that this place was damned.

He shook his head, scolding himself silently. He was being unfair. Unlike her, he knew something about the history of this mine. He had hoped that she would listen to his suggestion to go on without him having to explain her what it was all about. This place had taken its toll so many times; the temptation of wealth and knowledge was sitting in this cave like a fat spider, waiting for the next victim, just to turn out to be endless doom.

"Setharai." He called her, softly. "Let's go."

She turned back, her finely chiseled features hauntingly beautiful in the flickering blue-green shine. "Already? I thought you could at least tell me what kind of place it is." Her other hand, in which she still held the sword, gestured at the walls. "A bit more than a simple 'be prepared to fight' would be nice. You could start with… Let me think… 'This mine is cursed, Setharai, let's not stay here, we could be attacked by zombies'… Yes, that would have been fitting."

The Shade listened to her, unable to believe the insolence of her words. What was she talking about? He had been pretty clear about his wish not to spend the night here.

"Or you could tell me if there are other interesting encounters, like the undead we just enjoyed playing with, planned for the next days. Will it be a horde of beastmen next time? Or maybe a dragon ogre? A Greater Demon, perhaps?" She turned away again, her voice sounding hollow and shrill, echoing from the black walls. "Maybe it would make some sense for us to try and talk, you know? Traveling together would be much more pleasant this way." And with these words, she stepped further into the cave, following the rails into the tunnel.

"Setharai!" Ruathac gritted his teeth.

For a moment, he considered letting her walk off into her death. He tried to help her, he really did; but her behavior made him really uncomfortable now. What was she expecting? The treacherous sweet talk of the Hellbane's court, the drunken fairy-tales of corsairs from the haven of Clar Karond? He had seen enough city-dwellers in his life, and it seemed that they were all the same. They preferred talking to thinking.

He leaned against a wall and began reloading his repeater crossbow. He had lost some of the bolts in the undead flesh before he noticed that they wouldn't be wounded by the shots. He had had no possibility to get the bolts back out. He would have to make new ones soon.

When he was finished with the task, he waited, eyes closed, even elven sight useless in the complete darkness of the cave, and listened.

She would come back soon enough, he told himself. Once she noticed that he didn't go after her, she would come back. City-dwellers were too afraid to cross the Blackspines alone. She needed him.

He waited.

_..._

_Wait._

_Something is breathing._

_Steps._

_Warmth._

_Light – no, not just light. Magic._

_Magic!_

_Sweet, sweet scent of – life._

_Souls. Voices. _

_Wait._

_Ready to strike._

_..._

With a sudden rush of blood in his temples, his heartbeat going so fast that he thought his heart would break open his ribcage, he opened his eyes.

Only moments had passed since he had heard Setharai's faint steps for the last time, but at once the waiting was unbearable, and the acute sense of danger had him in its grasp.

_Something else had been waiting too_.

Waiting for Setharai.

And he knew at once that if he wanted to see her again, he had to find her before _it_ found her.

_..._

_Wait._

_Awake, now._

_Follow, follow the path, little mortal._

_Little vessel of magic._

_Dormant, weak, but it will suffice._

_The net is woven._

_Hungry._

_Wait._

...

Setharai walked on. The walls of the tunnel had become smoother again, and the silvery veins of metal were once more visible in the stone. The witch light in her hand shimmered, reflected by the thin, snaking metallic surfaces, hinting to the beauty of the treasure hidden inside the mine, turning the dark corridor into something more resembling royal halls than a mere cave.

She was sure by now that this ore must be something precious – the first part of the corridor, where the walls were full of ragged edges and holes, was the one where the metal had been already mined, broken from its mineral cradle.

She had seen a couple of dwarf skeletons on her way – probably slave workers, judging by the iron collars, cuffs and chains still adorning their bones. She wondered how they managed to decay in here instead of being conserved by frost. Even though it was slightly warmer in the cave than outside, it was still a temperature that would make water freeze. Maybe it was different in the summer – or maybe the cave had been heated by fires at the time when the workers had died.

The further she moved into the mine, the more skeletons she found. Now, there were also longer, more fragile bones, probably those of elves or humans. Briefly, she worried that the presence of undead outside the cave might mean a possible resurrection of all those skeletons.

The thought made her stop.

...

_No, little vessel._

_They won't come alive._

_Nothing returns to life here._

_Everything just dies._

_Everything dies._

_And you will, too._

_Wait._

_And see._

_..._

Soothed by undefined, misty thoughts clouding her mind, Setharai walked on again. Soon, she would learn the secret of this place. She was looking forward to it.

She had learned so much already – summoning a witch light was something she had never been able to do before, and it was so easy here. She felt gratitude, and she felt welcome in this place.

When she saw what else awaited her, she smiled in delight and relief.

On the path before her – walls and metallic rivulet patterns on them fading – she saw Umdar, steam rising from her black flanks. The mare was shaking her delicate head, beating an inaudible, nervous rhythm on the ground with her hooves, dancing in impatience.

"Umdar! I feared you were dead…" Setharai stretched out her arms towards the horse, letting the sword fall and the witch light disappear.

Darkness enveloped her.


	6. 6 - Illusion

**Lord of the Mountain Roads**

**Chapter VI: Illusion**

He followed the sounds – faint steps in the darkness, her breathing, her heart-beat that he was maybe hallucinating. She was gone, and gone was the witchlight in her hand, and he had to rely on his ears. He wasn't sure how long he had walked, slowly beginning to doubt his decision to try and bring her back.

This was no usual mine. He had been reluctant to tell her, for some things are better left untold. Even speaking of the dark presence inside the cave would wake it – that was what Ruathac's great grandmother, the witch of the clan, the one who listened to the somber and deadly musings of the entity named Ereth Kial, had whispered to the curious child that Ruathac had once been.

The Blackspines held many secrets under their rocky roofs - old graves, lairs of forgotten horrors from times before the memory of Elves and monumental temples. Temples once built to worship the dark gods of the wild, of Khaine's jealous and passionate sister Anath Raema and of the savage god of nature Ellinill, in his aspects as Hukon, the earthquake, and Addaioth, the fire under earth.

Even more sinister and mysterious shrines were placed deeper below; shrines for Nethu, the guardian of the gate, and for the Dark Mother herself, shrines that once guarded secret paths the labyrinth web under the rocks. By now, the seafaring Druchii have discovered the Sea Beyond, using it as a passage to the eastern seas, to take what was rightfully theirs, to found colonies in lands as foreign and exotic as Cathay, to bring home riches formerly unheard of, in silk and jade and gold. The shrines, once thought to be entrances to the Underworld itself, where the Dark Mother kept the souls of the Elves captive, had since lost their worshippers and priests, and new ways had been found to access the dark waters beneath the mountains. The Cult of Ereth Kial, the Dark Mother, was now the responsibility of the Convent of the Sorceresses, and only the Khainite assassins still kept the knowledge of the deadly runes of Nethu. But Ruathac had seen one or two of the old shrines, and even though he was not much of a believer in the Cytharai, he could have sworn upon the honor of his clan that something was still waiting there, alien and cold, waiting for a new sacrifice. The old gods never forgot.

Yet these tunnels he was following here was no part of a temple, nor a road to the Sea Beyond. This was a mine. It was visibly made by dwarven hands that were motivated by a Druchii whip. The mining had been hasty and careless, but still more masterful than any elf could perform in the hard stone of the Blackspines.

...

_Ruathac's great grandmother had remembered the tale of this mine. She had not witnessed what happened there herself, and she was not sure which of her ancestors did. It must have been thousands of years before Ruathac was born. The Druchii had found a very special metal ore here. Harder and lighter than silversteel and even the Ithilmar of the weakling Asur, this metal was the most sought after in the old world – and it was believed to only be found there, in a few select places, mines guarded by dwarves ferociously._

_Gromril. They had found Gromril here._

_Of course, only dwarves would know how to mine for, or even forge this metal, and so it were dwarven slaves that worked here. But dwarves are a proud people, and they wouldn't give the metal they treasure most, this holy gift of the Ancestor Gods, to their enemies. And the slaves that were brought here spoke to each other deep under the earth, on those nights when the Druchii guards and slave drivers, all decadent Dark Elves of the Cities, were playing dice, drunken with herb-infused wine that kept them warm, or indulging in their torture games. The slaves spoke in Kazalit, the language dwarves hardly ever teach to anybody. They knew what they would find underneath the glittering surface, they knew what neighbors the living veins of Gromril often had. And they made a plan to use this secret against their oppressors. Dwarves didn't lie, as they never do. But the Druchii never asked them, and so the slaves didn't need to tell them the truth._

_Beneath the vein of the ore, there was another mineral to be found in these caves. The dwarves dug deeper than required, and the overseers didn't notice._

_When finally the greenish, ghostly light that emanated from the deepest cave beneath the mine tunnels was noticed by the Druchii overseers, they were overjoyed instead of frightened. Pure magic, the power of the eight winds, gathered and compressed in stone, had been revealed to their greedy eyes. Vast amounts of warpstone were waiting for them, material sought by the most depraved and courageous magic wielders for dark and magnificent rituals. The Convent of the Sorceresses, so they thought, would pay them well for this treasure._

_Human slaves were brought from Clar Karond and Karond Kar to work the new mine. Every day, the overseers counted their fortune in shining metal and luminescent green stone, and every night became a celebration of their future success. Their hopes grew higher than the peaks of the Blackspines, and even the lowest ranking guard began, in feverish dreams, to see himself as a rich salesman, wealthy enough to buy a whole fleet, or as a head of a new Highborn house. At night, seductive voices whispered in their ears that through the benevolence of the Convent, even the Witchking would at last see their worth; they deemed themselves generals of new armies already, Dreadlords with hundreds of Cold One Knights and thousands of spears under them._

_And with the ambitious and haughty dreams, the nature of all Dark Elves awoke to a new passion in them. Mistrust, jealousy and treason burned in their hearts with a scorching, restless flame. Every Druchii suspected that the other one would try to steal their chances from him. The guards turned against the slave drivers, and the overseers fought duels against each other._

_When finally the Highborn to whom the mine belonged arrived, alarmed by a frightened herald, he found the mine deserted. He was sane enough to take a Sorceress with him, an ally who had accompanied his Black Ark to many battles; for the herald had spoken of dark magic. He entered the tunnels, both curious and fuming with anger, determined to punish both the Druchii who had neglected their duty and the lazy slaves._

_All he found were corpses, hacked into a mess of bone and organs by blades, or entwined in a strangling embrace with each other; severed heads and limbs, skulls broken in by mining tools. At first, he suspected that he was seeing the evidence of a slave rebellion, but as he descended deeper into the mines, the more he saw dwarves and humans, in the same state as their elven tormentors above. Hundreds of workers, all dead._

_It was only when he entered the Warpstone Chamber, Ruathac's great-grandmother had whispered, that he saw the truth. But he never lived to tell about it. The Sorceress was the only one who had escaped, and she had fled the tunnels, screaming inconsistent curses and crying, her voice hoarse from the efforts. The local Autarii had found her and enslaved her, for she was not able to cast a spell anymore, her mind destroyed by whatever she had encountered in the mine, neither did her withered, bony frame, hardly more than a skeleton, give her enough strength to resist physically or even to try and kill herself. More than that, she seemed glad; she let herself be blinded willingly, as if she couldn't stand the sight of the world anymore; she stopped screaming instead of crying out her pain when her thumbs and ears were removed, and after the healer of the tribe severed her vocal chords and she came back to conscience, her lips kept moving, forming words of gratitude._

_Ruathac had asked his great-grandmother if the former Sorceress was still alive, but the old woman just shook her head and laughed. No, she had answered, after a year or two of service, the insane slave had run off again; the clan found her dead body frozen cold at the entrance of the cursed mine._

_Hundreds and thousands of years had passed since those gruesome events, and the Shades of Ruathac's clan had killed anybody who tried to enter the unholy mine and seek out the hidden treasures._

...

But now, Ruathac was the only one left of his tribe. The secrets of his great-grandmother were buried in ice just like the deadly efficiency of those who once guarded the place from careless adventure-seekers. And he was about to descend into the darkness of the horrors beneath.

A revolting feeling bend him in half, and he landed on hands and feet, his head spinning. The knowledge that he was committing a sacrilege, turning against the rules of his clan, was almost a physical pain, pushing his last meal back up his throat and wringing out his brain. Soundlessly, he begged for forgiveness; whether from his dead clan or from the Dark Gods, he didn't know.

…

She buried her nose in Umdar's neck, the faint fragrance of winter, road dust and mountain herbs and the well-known smell of horse bringing her mind to peace. For a moment, she allowed herself to relax. Everything was well again.

On horseback, she moved further into the mine, the ceiling at once high and the walls far away, and there was light shining everywhere. An endless ride, and at last a rest, and she slept curled up by Umdar's side, listening to the steady breathing of the animal.

She dreamed, a dream she had almost forgotten.

...

_A small child, an elven girl of two or three years, hardly more than a helpless infant, plastered to the metal and wood of a heavy door. Her fear so great that it engulfs her whole body, turning her blood into liquid ice, constricting her innards and shaking her small, pale limbs under the simple dark brown clothing which is wet from her sweat and urine. Fear of the ones who are dancing and laughing in the streets, their shrill, malevolent voices that are woven into a tapestry of death and danger by the clashing of metal on metal, of metal on bone._

_The door has been locked, and little hands hit its surface, trying to evoke a sound. The room is tiny, and it has pictures on the wooden wall panels, people with strange faces, dressed in limbs and veins, in snakes and scorpions, their hands holding weapons and items that the child doesn't know the names of. A table in the middle, a grey stone plate on six solid legs of black pine wood, is covered in sticky red-brown, and the child knows that this is where the slaves get put, as gifts for the Gods. The little girl has seen how they struggle when her father raises the long curved dagger. They are silly, the slaves, they don't know that it is good when the gods eat their souls. They are not Druchii, and that is why they are silly._

_But the last time the child was in this room – "You are not to tell anybody about the shrine, Setharai, have you understood me?" – was not scary. Back then, there were father and mother with her in the room, and uncle, and grandmother._

_Now the faces from the walls look at her with bloodlust in their carved eyes, and their swords and claws are all pointed towards her, and she is alone, and locked in, and there is this terrible howling outside. Knocking doesn't help, it is not loud enough, and despite being awfully ashamed – "Don't cry for help, you have to learn to defend yourself, Setharai!" – she screams._

_Her high-pitched scream, the voice of a whelp in need, pierces walls and hurries down corridors. Druchii have hearts of silversteel, but their instincts are older than their pride, and the adults turn their ears to the wailing of the young of their kind involuntary._

_And one of them answers the call. Lands in shards of wood and glass through the window, breaks through the barricades that the child's parents have so carefully build of shields and bags of sand and furniture, and enters the secret room in the middle of the estate, her voice cooing – "Come, little girl, are you made of courage? Come, little girl, Khaela Mensha Khaine wants you…" – but her face and nearly naked body covered in fresh, fresh blood, and a crown of bowel strings on her white hair, a kidney as a jewel in the middle._

_For a moment, the girl child wants to follow, the adult in front of her is everything the child adores, strong, lithe, powerful, and beautiful, and the smile in her blood-covered face is warm and reassuring, even though the eyes are cold brass – "Come, little girl, the God of Murder has chosen you!" – and maybe the dagger in the adult's right hand will protect the child instead of burying itself in the small warm body – "Come with me to the Temple of Khaine!" – and she is one step closer, and another._

_But it is father's head that the adult holds in her left hand, by the long black braid that the little girl always wanted to play with._

_The child steps back. Her shoulder blades touch the stone wall, and she looks back, frantically, in search of an exit – "Come, little girl, there is only one door in this room, and you will go through it with me!" – and sees skulls and hands at the belt of a huntress._

_All teachings of her parents forgotten, there is no pride or courage left, when the child cowers under the relief of one of the Cytharai, the priestess of another in front of her. The threat of being killed and the promise of being chosen are equally frightening at once, and the girl covers her eyes with her hands, awaiting the final blow._

_It never comes. Steps, hasty and stumbling, rustle of linen and silk, and her mother's voice – "Hide, Setharai!" – and then the twang of the crossbow string, a bolt emerging between the breasts of the blood-colored priestess, a thump. Long white hair pools at the child's feet, the body of the Witch Elf on the stone table, her blood and that of her victims mingling with the rusty old remains of old sacrifices. Arms dangling, dagger jingling on the stone floor, and father's head looking at the child with dead black eyes._

_She takes the dagger with her, crawling under the table, and then reaches for fathers head and cradles it in her arms. She hears her mother locking the door from the outside again._

_The wild dance of Khaine's brides continues, but the girl child is not afraid anymore. She plays with her father's hair, unbraiding it and braiding it again. He had never allowed it before. It is sticky with blood._

_Her uncle arrives at midday, and wordlessly pulls her out from under the table. Her mother, pale and shaken, circles the room like a captive manticore, and noisily worries about the body of the priestess – "We must destroy it before the Temple notices!" – , but the little girl knows everything is well again. She looks back to the picture of the huntress._

_There are two new trophies at the belt of the goddess. The dead Witch Elf's dagger pins a black braid and a white one to the wooden wall panel._

_Setharai would have rather taken the heads for that, but she knows her mother would object._

…

Setharai shivered, waking up. She had had this dream so many times, but it was still unsettling.

"So you really think that Anath Raema chose you, saved you from her own brother?"

The voice was vaguely familiar, and Setharai looked up, startled. Umdar had disappeared, and she was sitting against a cold cave wall. Greenish light allowed her to see the figure approaching her.

"Do you think it was a lucky turn? Foolish child." The elf stepped closer, and Setharai recognized a Druhir symbol on the woolen robes that the man wears under the long chain mail coat and simple metal breastplate. It was the family crest of her house.

"How do you know…" Her voice broke, as if she hadn't spoken in a long time, and her throat was terribly dry.

The man pointed a crossbow at her. "Oh, I had more than enough time to analyze the situation. I had hoped that I could be proud of you… If I was to die, at least you could have used the chance well and become a With Elf." His black eyes narrowed. "I have only had one child, and I hoped that it would try to raise the status of our family and earn honor for the House of the Hound." His left hand took off his helmet, and messy black hair fell over his armored shoulders. "And you could at least have had the decency to keep your dirty little hands off my braid."

Setharai shook her head, trying to chase away the illusion. "My father is dead." She stood up shakily. She must have lost her sword somewhere, but if it was necessary, she was ready to fight the impostor, be it demon or mortal sorcerer, with her fists. "And he should stay dead, too."

…

He heard the Dark Rider speak, voice hoarse and full of bitterness. Finally, he thought, it has been long enough. The labyrinth mine was confusing even for his excellent sense of orientation. The angles and patterns of the corridors seemed to change all the time. The chaotic nature of the cursed mine had led him astray for days, and he was not sure anymore if he would ever find a way out – or find Setharai.

Maybe it was another trick of this damned place, but he felt relieved nonetheless. Crossbow and sword in his hands, he ran down the tunnel into the direction where the voice came from. It was getting less dark, and the greenish light told him there must be Warpstone in the near – or witchlight lanterns.

As he stumbled into the huge cavern, he was almost blinded by the radiant green. It took him some moments to realize what he was staring at – and as it turned its head towards him, he almost jumped back.

The huge, bloated body covered in chitinous plates and patches of fluorescent fungus was balancing upon eight long legs bent at irregular angles. The abdomen of the creature ended in two scythe-like claws, or stingers, that were moving slowly, a gland secreting a web thread as thick as Ruathac's arm hidden between them. At the front end, the body became thinner, almost building a waist, and flaring out again into a writhing mass of humanoid arms and legs, only partly defined faces, torso halves and organs that would normally belong on the inside of a living being. Appendages reminding of animal snouts or toothed tentacles were showing here and there in this chaotic fusion, rusted swords and spears, once driven into the creature's flesh, protruded in between the moving limbs, and in the middle of it all, on a long, crane-like neck, a head resided. Arrogant, aquiline features, black fearless eyes, and a mass of night-black hair – it was a head of a male Druchii, pictured quite authentically. Only the pale skin was not skin, but hundreds of white maggots moving simultaneously to create a mimicry of an expression; the hair was not hair but a nest of thin, black worms, each one ending in a small sucker.

The thing smiled. The head rearranged itself, maggots crawling in a seemingly random pattern, and Ruathac held his breath.

The creature was now wearing his dead wife's face.

The memory was painful, and he heard her voice in his head, whispering sadly that he didn't only abandon the clan, but also broke their rules, entering a place they wished to stay sealed forever. His arms felt weak, the sword and the crossbow useless against a horror like this, and for the first time in all those lonely months, he felt his despair defeating him.

But then there was a sudden movement, the front legs of the thing, ending in serrated blade-like claws, twitched, and without looking away from its new prey, the creature parried a blow.

The distraction was enough for the creature to lose a bit of control over him, and Ruathac tore himself from the hypnotic gaze to look at the attacker. It was Setharai, throwing herself at the monster with her bare hands, trying to hit it, but unable to injure it. Her feet were caught in a sticky mess that covered the floor – a parody for a spider web, just like the creature was a parody of a spider – but she didn't seem to notice that her movement was hindered by it.

"You have let them corrupt me, too." The voice had changed. Surprised, Ruathac turned back to where the thing was. Or had been – in its place, a young Druchii stood, hardly more than a child. Someone he knew, and with whom he had fought together, though not jet a friend. Someone with whom he had shared meat and salt. They had been retainers of the same noble lord in those long, hardly bearable years before Ruathac had came back to the Blackspines to find his clan erased. The boy was someone whom he had warned but failed to keep from falling, and whom he had watched slowly succumb to the way of the lost.

The youth smiled friendly. Garish robes barely covered his body that had once been severly disfigured by thousands of scars. The skin was pure white marble now, and the body shape seemed weirdly distorted, feminine curves gracing the right side of it, while the left remained that of a male. "You have told me that you are not moved by Chaos," the young Druchii purred, "But when I needed you, my only trustworthy ally, to guide me away from the disgrace of the Cult of Pleasures, you turned your back on me."

Ruathac shook his head, annoyed. "I never said I was your ally."

"You? You are nobody's ally. A traitor, no more. You left your clan to die; and now you are even betraying your foolish war on Chaos. Breaking the rules of your clan, descending into the depth of a cursed mine, infested by demonic entities... For what? A useless passion, a hope for a brief moment of future lust with a female..." The youth laughed. "The Dark Prince would surely approve."

"You are not who you pretend to be... He was a damn good liar, and talented at reading minds." Ruathac laughed coldly. The creature had chosen wrong, and his will was returning. "And you are not." And despite his arm with the crossbow still feeling as heavy as lead, he raised it. And shot.

The bolt crossed the distance between the Shade and the apparition, and with a metallic sound, jumped off the hide of the spider-like thing that was hiding behind the illusion.

The apparition faded, and with a hiss, the monster jumped towards Ruathac, the face of the Druchii youth dissolving into a mass of mandibles and feelers. He darted forwards and under the black towering body, escaping the serrated blades by a second, and struck out with his sword, aiming upwards.

His sword scraped the abdomen of the creature, not even leaving a scratch. The natural armor was too strong for usual weapons to break through.

Ruathac used his momentum to roll out between two of the many legs and came up directly in front of the Dark Rider. Setharai had used the distraction to grab and hold on to one of the other legs, trying to use the fact that her own feet were caught by its web against it, slowing it down.

"Fools!" The creature's voice was now a cacophony of hundredfold whispers and screams, as it let its attempts to entice and confuse fall. The cavern shook, and dark shadows crawled over the bleak green stone in the walls.

"I am omnipotent! I offer riches beyond compare!" The thundering voice echoed eerily, the sound distorted by the magical power of Warpstone. "I would have given you eternity, in exchange for a little bit of petty life magic that flows through you!"

Dark figures rose from the floor of the cavern, stumbling skeletons held together by pure hate and greed, bodies dried thousands of years ago into parchment skin and twig-like limbs.

The words of the thing became a screeching sound, loud enough to cause pain. "Now those who had followed my call will feast on your flesh, and instead of a dream-like death that I would have given you, you will suffer unimaginable pain at their withered hands and poisonous jaws!"

Ruathac tried to cut through the viscous cords that glued Setharai's legs and boots to the floor, but the Druchii woman shook her head, screaming something. The material was elastic, giving in, but not ripping, and he could not severe the binds.

Setharai pointed towards the upper torso of the creature with one hand, holding on to the monster's leg with the other, screaming against the noise again.

Finally he understood. He jumped onto the thing's back, balancing the few steps towards the mass of limbs and tentacles, and gripped one of the rusty swords protruding between them. Ghostly blue runes flashed up on the rusty blade. An enchanted weapon that had once wounded the monster, and around which the demonic flesh had healed. Ruathac pulled.

The monster cried in pain, its voice at once almost that of an elf or a human, and a wound bleeding black liquid opened where the sword had just been.

The Shade threw himself from the creature's back, and with one strike, he cut through the web-like substance that bound his companion.

Moments later, the two Druchii were running through the dark corridors, hearing shuffling steps of the undead behind them.


End file.
